(POST)COLONIAL AFRICA by Katherine Lynn Coverdale the F

Home , Atlantics, Beau Travail, Claire Denis, White Material

ABSTRACT

AN EXPLORATION OF IDENTITY IN CLAIRE DENIS’ AND MATI DIOP’S (POST)COLONIAL AFRICA

by Katherine Lynn Coverdale

The focus of this thesis is aimed at two female French directors: Claire Denis and Mati Diop. Both auteurs utilize framing to create and subsequently break down ideological boundaries of class and race. Denis’ films Chocolat and White Material show the impossibility of a distinct identity in a racialized post-colonial society for someone who is Other. With the help of Laura Mulvey and Richard Dyer, the first chapter of this work on Claire Denis offers a case study of the relationship between the camera and race seen through a deep analysis of several sequences of those two films. Both films provide an opportunity to analyze how the protagonists’ bodies are perceived on screen as a representation of a racial bias held in reality, as seen in the juxtaposition of light and dark skin tones. The second chapter analyzes themes of migration and the symbolism of the ocean in Diop’s film Atlantique. I argue that these motifs serve to demonstrate how to break out of the identity assigned by society in this more modern post-colonial temporality. All three films are an example of the lasting violence due to colonization and its seemingly inescapable ramifications, specifically as associated with identity.

AN EXPLORATION OF IDENTITY IN CLAIRE DENIS’ AND MATI DIOP’S (POST)COLONIAL AFRICA

A Thesis

Submitted to the

Faculty of Miami University

in partial fulfillment of

the requirements for the degree of

Master of Arts

Katherine Lynn Coverdale

Miami University

Oxford, Ohio

2020

Advisor: Dr. Elisabeth Hodges

Reader: Dr. Katie Johnson

Reader: Dr. Jonathan Strauss

This Thesis titled

AN EXPLORATION OF IDENTITY IN CLAIRE DENIS’ AND MATI DIOP’S (POST)COLONIAL AFRICA

Katherine Lynn Coverdale

has been approved for publication by

The College of Arts and Sciences

and

Department of French and Italian

______Dr. Elisabeth Hodges

______Dr. Katie Johnson

______Dr. Jonathan Strauss

Table of Contents

1: Claire Denis and Mati Diop: French-African Film in Conversation 1

2: The White Other: Analyzing Race in Claire Denis’ White Material and Chocolat 5 The Other Counterpoint 8 Ambiguity and Difference 17 Race and Gender 23

3: The Search for Identity: Migration in Mati Diop’s Atlantique 31 Decentering the Human 34 Those Left Behind 40 Diop’s Ghost World 44

4: Colonial Consequences 49

iii

Dedication

For Mom and Dad, thank you.

Acknowledgements

There are many people to whom I am grateful for helping me through this process and working on this project. First, to every educator, coach, and mentor that has influenced me in my life and in my academics. Every educator has impacted me in some way, but I am particularly grateful to Kevin Hinkle, Katy Nagaj, and Heather Baugher and my incredibly brilliant thesis committee Dr. Katie Johnson and Dr. Jonathan Strauss. No thank you is big enough for my advisor Dr. Elisabeth Hodges. Her guidance, patience, and work ethic are both inspiring and indispensable to me throughout not only this project, but my other academic endeavors as well. Love and thanks to my friends and family who have encouraged me the past 18 years of my academic life. Special thanks to Mady Neal and Callie Miller for being my sounding board, a source of encouragement and inspiration, and for always offering to edit my work. Thank you to my rock, Precious Ayah, for talking through my ideas with me, calming me down when I was stressed, and telling me to come back inside from the pool and type. Finally, thank you to my amazing parents. Your love and support cannot be overstated.

1: CLAIRE DENIS AND MATI DIOP: FRENCH-AFRICAN FILM IN CONVERSATION

If there’s specific resistance to women making movies, I just choose to ignore that as an obstacle for two reasons: I can’t change my gender, and I refuse to stop making movies. Kathryn Bigelow1

Last year I had the pleasure of meeting and speaking with French-Senegalese filmmaker Alain Gomis. During a screening of his film Aujourd’hui (2012), I was struck by the lighting of a particular sequence. When asked about how he chose to light it in such a manner he replied with something along the lines of intuition: he “just knew it had to be done that way”. While that answer might not be helpful for an aspiring director, his response gave me some insight into the intuitive sense of some directors. French director Claire Denis had a similar reaction when asked about her changes in point of view during her films, attributing her admired expertise to a feeling.2 Denis studied at the Institut des hautes études cinématographiques (now the École nationale supérieure des métiers de l’image et du son), and graduated in 1971 at age 23. Following her graduation, she worked as an assistant director to Costa Gavras, Jacques Rivette, and Wim Wenders to name only a few.3 Denis’ filmography spans genres, from fiction to documentaries, shorts, video-art films, and even to television series. Her first feature film, Chocolat, debuted in 1988 and was selected to be among the films at the Cannes Film Festival. Years later in 2001, Denis’ film Trouble Every Day was booed off the screen by the same critics at Cannes. This film is cited as the closest to a horror film Denis has ever made with its plot following erotic vampires in Paris. Her films are largely known to be intertextual and based on literature.4 In 2009, Denis directed the film 35 rhums, a film that takes place in the Parisian suburbs and centers around ambiguous and complex familial relationships. The main character of that film is played by Mati Diop, future director of Atlantique (2019). At the time, Diop was a student at Le Fresnoy, studying to become a filmmaker, and emphasized the high regard she already held for Denis.

1 Perry, Michelle P. “Kathryn Bigelow Discusses Role of ‘Seductive Violence’ in Her Films - The Tech.” The Tech - Online Edition, 16 Mar. 1990. 2 “Dialogues & Film Retrospectives: Claire Denis.” Walker Art Center. 3 “Claire Denis.” The European Graduate School, 27 Aug. 2019. 4 Williams, James S. Space and being in contemporary French cinema. Manchester University Press. 2015. p. 233-284. 1

Mati Diop comes from an artistically polyvalent family: her uncle is a celebrated filmmaker from Senegal (Djibril Diop Mambéty), her father a musician, and her mother partook in several artistic endeavors including photography, directing commercials and now buys art. Despite her predisposition for a career in the arts, Diop came into her cinematic career without much influence from her family, except perhaps her own innate talent. Some of her most notable films in her newfound directing career are shorts Atlantiques (2009) and Mille Soleils/A Thousand Suns (2013) and award-winning full-length feature Atlantique (2019).5 Diop credits Denis with the direction and force her career has taken. She says, “The more I advance in my own path the more I realize how the experience with her [Claire Denis] was very foundational.”6 Diop even credits working on 35 rhums with Claire Denis as an experience that inspired her to return to her African roots, since playing the daughter of a black man reminded her that she herself was not only white, but also black. In the film her character is biracial with a French- African father and a white mother from Germany. This resonates with Diop’s ethnicity and identity as a biracial woman of French-Senegalese descent, her father from Senegal and her mother a white, French woman. Thus, portraying this role in 35 rhums became a moment where she also rediscovered and took back her own identity. These two auteurs intersect not only in real life and their experiences together as directors, but also in the subject material and visual style of their films. Specifically, Denis’ White Material and Diop’s Atlantique pair well together in an exploration of female identity in Africa. More specifically, the directors interrogate their protagonists’ identities in the midst of post coloniality by simultaneously acknowledging colonialism’s influence and attempting to break from its constraints. The countries where colonialism took place – unnamed African country in White Material, and Senegal in Atlantique - fell into a state of organized chaos following the political end of colonialism. There was no longer colonized and colonizer, but a spectrum of identities that took into account a person’s religion, gender, sexuality, and race. These factors create the ambiguous identities of the protagonists in both films. White Material and Atlantique also revolve around the liminal. For Denis, it is a liminal temporality, the time in between colonization and post-colonialism, whereas Diop focuses on liminal space, namely the

5 Atlantique was the winner of the Grand Prix at Cannes film festival. 2019. 6 Lim, Dennis, host. “Mati Diop on Atlantics.” Film at Lincoln Center Podcast. Episode 268. SoundCloud. 2019.

2 ocean. Furthermore, their cinematographic methods are similar in their framing techniques, lack of dialogue, and also their use of shaky handheld cameras. The African setting of both films plays an important role in these women’s lives as well since they both have strong ties to the African land. Claire Denis grew up in Africa and Mati Diop is of French-Senegalese heritage, as previously mentioned. Their connection to the land is reflected in their films, often shown with big sweeping landscapes in a long shot, demonstrating the grandeur and power of these places. Denis’ first film, Chocolat, also presents these images and will be included in my argument in the first chapter on Claire Denis. Since the three films take place in different time periods there is a chronological progression of identity seen throughout my argument, beginning with Chocolat during colonization, then to White Material and its convoluted time immediately following the collapse of colonization, and finally with Atlantique and the more modern implications of post-colonialism. This analysis is split into two chapters and a conclusion. The first chapter explores Claire Denis’ films Chocolat and White Material and the othering of both main characters: a black man and a white woman respectively. We will see how racial difference plays an important role in each of their identities as Other. The three subsections will argue first that the Other is ambiguous and often related to race. Second, the ambiguity in the main character’s identity is due to her inability to distinguish between her difference and her otherness. Finally, I will prove the main character as Other through her race and gender. The second chapter extends into the post-colonial world and examines the repercussions of colonialism and the ways in which it affects migration and identity, ultimately arguing the possibility for a new identity in the people and the country after colonization. In a similar manner, this chapter has three subsections which will argue first that the ocean as a subject decenters the characters. Second, the post-colonial economy and society which pushes men to leave and keeps the women behind aids the protagonist in finding her new identity. Finally, I will argue that the ocean functions as a sort of purgatory, ferrying lost souls, which solidifies the main character’s resolve to claim her new identity free of society’s constraints. Each of these smaller arguments is in service of the larger argument which contends there is a negative effect of colonialism on identity and its cinematic representation by these two filmmakers.

2: THE WHITE OTHER Mother of otherness, Eat me. Sylvia Plath7

One prevalent theme throughout much of Claire Denis’ work is her draw to Africa, specifically French African nations, countries where she spent much of her early and adolescent years. Two of Denis’ films that take place in Africa, during a time associated with French colonization, are the subject matter for this chapter: Chocolat (1988) and White Material (2010). Chocolat, her first feature film, takes place in Cameroon during the period of French colonization and is oftentimes said to pay homage to her childhood. After Chocolat, Denis’ career as a filmmaker largely takes leave of colonial Africa as the setting for her films, (though the subject haunts much of her filmic oeuvre, notably, Beau Travail (1999) set in Djibouti about the French Foreign Legion, and 35 rhums (2009) set in present-day Paris and featuring a diverse cast about the middle-class French-African experience) and returns twenty years later in White Material. These films are inherently connected through their African setting, and also through their relationship to Denis’ childhood. Denis, born in 1948, spent her childhood moving around colonial West Africa, owing to her father’s job as an “administrator of the French colonial services”.8 Denis is set apart from other directors in this sense because she can create from experience and personal sentiment, as opposed to those who try to speak for a population in which they take no part. A further connection between Chocolat and White Material is actor Isaach de Bankolé, who plays Protée in Chocolat and returns to work with Denis’ cast to play the role of the Boxer, a revolutionary people’s hero caught up in the midst of a coup d’état in White Material. While this chapter seeks to analyze White Material and its racial implications, Chocolat serves as a necessary counterpoint, which we will see later on. Ultimately, what I will prove is that Denis shows the impossibility of a distinct identity in a racialized post-colonial society for someone who is Other. This chapter will be divided into three subsets, each servicing this larger argument. First, I will be comparing Chocolat and White Material and the representation of their opposing protagonists – a black male lead in Chocolat and a white female lead in White Material (both are marginalized and ‘othered’ in their respective film). Next, I will be looking at ambiguity and difference and their role in confounding identity in White Material’s

7 “Who by Sylvia Plath.” By Sylvia Plath - Famous Poems, Famous Poets. - All Poetry, 8 Beugnet, Martine. Claire Denis. Manchester University Press. 2004. Manchester and New York, p. 7. 4 post-colonial temporality. I will conclude the chapter by proving the main character in White Material as Other – despite her own denial of this fact – due to her race and gender. These arguments will be seen through the theoretical lenses of Laura Mulvey and Richard Dyer, whose theories show the gendered and raced nature of the camera. It is necessary first to define the theoretical framework that will aid my argument throughout this chapter. To start with, Laura Mulvey argues that the unavoidable gaze of the camera is directed to provide visual pleasure only possible through looking, an idea that is especially useful in our examination on Denis’ portrayal of the Other. Both the cinematic gaze and the view of someone as Other have a strong relationship to perception: Other is determined by perception and the gaze is controlling how a character on screen is perceived. Perception is related inextricably to experience; therefore, both the gaze and the Other imply a certain historicity; that of the camera and that of people. Mulvey splits the gaze into two modes of active (male) and passive (female) looking where both are subjected to “a controlling and curious gaze” (that of the spectator).9 Building on Mulvey’s critical concept of the gendering of the gaze, this chapter will argue that Claire Denis’ White Material offers a case study of the relationship between the camera and race seen through a deep analysis of several sequences from White Material, and a comparison with Chocolat. Taking what Mulvey determines as a male gaze (active) in much of narrative cinema, I will argue that the camera is raced to favor/privilege the white gaze, where the white gaze is active, and the black gaze is passive. In Chocolat, we see Protée through a predominantly white gaze, due to the nature of the camera, and also his association with a white family. In my analysis of White Material, I will show how the camera is raced in this same manner; however, the main character is seen from a dominant perspective due to the camera’s inherent white gaze. Identifying with Michelle White’s work on the gaze, both films use the camera’s gaze to explore “how gendered, raced, eroticized, and controlled bodies become visible within media and other texts, and how individuals look at, identify with, and are constructed by visual representations.”10 Following White’s assertion that bodies only become visible through the cinematic medium, these films provide an opportunity to analyze how these bodies are perceived on screen as a representation of the bias held in reality. Film is a visual

9 Mulvey, Laura. Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema. 1999. p. 624. 10 White, Michele. The Body and the Screen: Theories of Internet Spectatorship. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006. 5 medium, and the way the spectator sees and perceives the bodies on the screen is directed by the gaze of the camera, whether that is a conscious or unconscious behavior. Richard Dyer takes us away from the gaze of the camera towards the camera itself, as a machine, and argues for the raced conception of the camera as apparatus. The camera, both in photography and in film, was constructed considering white people as the norm, white people as the subject matter of a frame and therefore the lighting of these apparatuses is geared towards lighter skin tones. As Dyer puts it, “The apparatus was developed with white people in mind and habitual use and instruction continue in the same vein, so much so that photographing non-white people is typically construed as a problem.”11 Thus, filming a white character is not just easier in terms of trying to find the correct lighting, but it is more naturalized (in the sense of muscle memory), to the point that whiteness is not addressed as such. Since the apparatus was designed in a sense for white people, Dyer argues that “photography and cinema, as media of light, at the very least lend themselves to privileging white people.”12 Both of these arguments are important for the films in this chapter because Denis juxtaposes light and dark skin tones and uses this juxtaposition as a point of contention in the othering of her characters. Jean-Louis Baudry adds to the unassuming, and oftentimes unquestioned, racing of the camera by arguing the camera has “been protected by the inviolability that science is supposed to provide.”13 Therefore, the raced function of the camera, specifically its proclivity for white people, goes unnoticed unless someone, such as Dyer, calls it to attention. We will see two different sides to the white predisposition of the camera as it displays a black and white protagonist in Chocolat and White Material respectively, and how this furthers Denis’ cinematic representation of the Other. The Other Counterpoint Claire Denis’ first feature, Chocolat, follows the story of a French girl, aptly named France (Mireille Perrier), who returns to Africa to visit the home in which she grew up. The film’s flashback narrative sets the film in France’s childhood in colonized Cameroon. Rather than inscribe the film in a nostalgic narrative about the return to an idealized past, the film explores themes and events that the younger France (Cécile Ducasse) witnessed as a child. This

11 Dyer, Richard. White Privilege: Essential Readings on the Other Side of Racism. “The Matter of Whiteness”. Paula Rothenberg, ed. 3rd ed. 2005, p. 89. 12 Ibid. p. 83. 13 Baudry, Jean-Louis. Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus. p. 217-227. 6 includes racial tensions between the workers at the house and the colonizers and, more specifically, the erotic relationship between France’s mother, Aimé (Giulia Boschi), and one of their African workers, Protée (Isaach de Bankolé). From an initially friendly relationship between France and Protée to one that highlights their racial difference, Denis’s film works through these differences exacerbated by French colonization by way of the narrative and framing techniques that directly juxtaposes their skin color. The final sequence of Chocolat introduces what one might describe as a broader concern throughout Denis’ filmic oeuvre with the representation of the Other, which is the central idea to this chapter on White Material. During these final moments, adult France boards a plane ready to leave her childhood home after never having seen Protée again. The camera leaves France and travels throughout the airport moving from the travelers to the workers. With African music playing on the soundtrack Denis shows some native décor, such as art objects, being loaded onto a plane, and then moves on to follow three of the workers. Logically, the camera is moving directly from France at her terminal to the runway outside. However, lost in Denis’ elliptical editing is a temporal collapse, a subtle moment where Denis fragments and plays with the film’s temporality, taking the viewer back to a time immediately following France’s family’s initial departure from Africa. This is important because Denis opens up the world to Protée; for once he is not waiting on France and her family, he discovers a sense of autonomy. In this new past, the camera symmetrically frames these African men in a long shot as they work at the airport. Without showing any of them in a close-up shot, Denis keeps hidden the detail that one of them is a young Protée who has moved on from his job with France’s family to this new one. By not identifying Protée in this sequence, Denis unbinds him from his association with the white family for which he worked, thus he is no longer seen through the white gaze associated not only with the family, but with colonization as well. In Chocolat, Protée is made visible through this white gaze, until the last sequence he is bound to and controlled by it. We see this control through Protée’s own actions and Denis’ cinematographic representation of him, often silent, in the service of others, or fragmented and cut off by the frame. The airport as a setting for this moment is important because it implies the globalization of racialized hierarchies, and also the opportunity to escape them. For Marc Augé, the airport is a “non-lieu” (a non-space) and, as such, isn’t necessarily anchored to Cameroon, but could be read as a repeated space anywhere in

7 the world.14 One might read this deidentified space of transit as a sign of Protée’s imminent freedom, a moment for him to embrace his part in a newly emerging African identity that is free from colonization. In James Williams’ reading of the final sequence of Chocolat, Denis is formally stripping back the ideological frame of the Other (Blacks perceived as different and other within a White gaze), and in the very process opening up the cinematic frame to reveal the visible world. To deframe and reframe the Other in Denis is simultaneously to ‘unframe’ and embrace the world.15

Indeed, the framing of any sequence is critical because it is the means by which the director selects to show, and even more so in this sequence because it enters into conversation with the Other, represented by Protée throughout the film. For Denis, however, what I will show is that her broader use of the frame doesn’t function as “inclusive” but rather as “exclusive”; it extracts and removes information from the screen, be it spatially or temporally. As previously suggested, Protée is no longer subject to the white gaze and his future is his own, as he is no longer tied to France, the country and the character. To further this moment of change and newfound freedom, Denis situates Protée and two other unidentified Africans within a strict interior frame using columns from a bridge. As the men walk forward, the camera follows, slowly removing the columns from the image and leaving them unframed. The ‘unframing’ was only possible by placing them in that frame to begin with, implying the systematic problem of racialized ideologies – the conscious (or unconscious) act of othering – and allowing Denis to take away from the image. What Denis removes in this instance is literally an interior frame by the camera zooming past the columns, and symbolically the “frame of the Other”. The joyous African soundtrack along with the movements of the boys’ bodies make this moment feel more akin to a celebration, as if they are celebrating their own unframing. Throughout the film Protée struggles to escape the white gaze, struggles to escape his “frame of the Other” contrary to his white counterpart in White Material who struggles to see and accept her own position as Other. White Material tells the story of a white plantation owner, Maria Vial (Isabelle Huppert), and her desperate resolve to preserve her coffee crop and remain on her African land while a guerilla uprising threatens to overturn the local post-colonial government. As French troops

14 Augé, Marc. Non-lieux : Introduction à une anthropologie de la surmodernité. La Librairie du XXe siècle. Seuil. 1992. 15 Williams, p. 239. 8 abandon the area, Maria is given the choice to either flee or remain on her land putting herself and others in danger. Similar to Chocolat, White Material follows a flashback narrative, although more complex than that of Denis’ first feature. Instead of the perhaps more traditional flashback, which is structured cyclically with the past sandwiched by the present moment (as we see in Chocolat), Denis warps and confuses time in White Material. She begins and ends with the same moment; however, in between this Denis removes temporal context, forcing the spectator to work to keep up with the film. This work emulates how difficult it is to discern time during different stages of colonization. When compared to Chocolat, where the diegetic past is set during the period of colonization, this new story takes place before, during, and immediately after the departure of the French presence, exploring the different temporalities of colonization. These different temporalities are hard to differentiate among because Denis does not ground these moments outside of small details and subtleties such as costume. It is unclear even if the French military is there to aid the mayor in an already sovereign, once colonized, African country, or if this is their original departure. This confused state highlights Denis’ implicit commentary that the temporality of colonization is not black and white, but rather grey, and in some ways impossible to define. Not only is it difficult to define, time is also fragmented, jumping in and out of the diegetic present without warning. Denis echoes this fragmentation in the opening sequence by visually and aurally fragmenting the sequence which shows the mayor and his militia walking through Maria’s house at nighttime. They are being led by a flashlight, which only illuminates part of the house, extracting information and making the spectator work, forcing the spectator to actively engage with the film. As the men go from room to room there are several jump cuts which disrupt the continuity of their movement. This discontinuity is also prevalent in the soundtrack which frequently cuts in and out. While time might not be fragmented in this first sequence, Denis does not give any indication of the temporality of this scene, nor where it sits in the grand scheme of the film’s narration. The fragmentation of the opening sequence is significant because Denis begins the film by alluding to its fragmented temporality which aids in confusing the identity of the Other. In both films, there is a strong binary between Blacks and Whites. As seen in the final sequence of Chocolat, Denis uses framing to remove the cinematic frame of the Other and interrupt the inherent white gaze. Denis also attempts to deny the racial separation caused by cinematic lighting in both films. First, in White Material, there is a sequence between Maria and

9 her workers while they are riding home in the truck. During a conversation in the front seat where two workers sit with Maria, there are several shot counter-shots depicting the flow of the conversation. Denis is careful not to show all three characters in the same frame. It is almost always Maria in one frame, a jump cut, and the workers in a separate frame, indicating their extreme difference from one another. This could also be the result of technology’s failure to properly light two people with different skin tones in the same frame. Throughout his work Dyer notes the difficulty of lighting a black person and a white person in the same frame as typically one is either too dark or the other bleached out from the image. During this sequence, Denis shows them in the same frame with the point of view through the driver’s side window, providing backlight for the two workers. The lighting is such that one of the workers, with his arm out of the window, is illuminated to the point that parts of him appear to be white. Both black workers’ faces are shadowed in the frame, a fact Denis distracts from by adding hats to their costume. Denis also uses Maria’s bright, yellow dress to blend with her skin and make it appear less bleached in contrast with the men. In this sequence, it is the costume that distracts from the unequal lighting of the black workers and the white Maria. In Chocolat, Denis uses extreme moments of light and dark to juxtapose and eradicate the problem of lighting in the skin color of Protée and young France. There are two moments during the film where Denis focuses on their hands in close-up, almost fetishizing the skin tones. The first is in the middle of the day with the sun completely exposing and illuminating them. Protée’s hand is on the right with young France’s hands on the left, both seen perfectly, not too bleached, not too dark. The focus on hands to portray this difference is no coincidence as hands do the work of the body; they are the means by which people work, move, write, touch, gesture, and describe. They are able to gesticulate and express more than other body parts (the face excluded) and are therefore representative of more than a physical difference of coloration. The choice of hands as opposed to the face is critical because it allows this difference to extend beyond the characters of Protée and young France. Towards the end of the film, after Protée rejects Aimé’s sexual advances and is consequently moved to work outside of the house, France finds him at night working in a room with pipes. She asks him if the pipes burn and instead of a verbal response, he responds with movement, by placing his hand on the pipe. Trusting Protée, France follows suit and immediately withdraws her hand to reveal a burn mark, a visual representation of the sting of colonization. Examining these two images together allows the viewer to see the

10 different coloration of Protée’s hand in the different lighting. Dyer observes in his work that “different kinds of lighting have different colours and degrees of warmth, with concomitant effects on different skins.”16 France’s hands remain similar in each image, more shadowed in the second image, whereas Protée’s change drastically in the different lighting. This difference might go unnoticed if these images were not placed side by side and demonstrate further Denis’ attempt to disallow the lighting to privilege white people. Ambiguity and Difference As previously stated, ambiguity and fragmentation structure the temporality of White Material. This lack of temporal distinction bleeds into and imposes itself on Maria’s identity crisis as a white woman, and into the relationships between the three predominant groups of people represented in the film: the mayor and his militia, the rebel insurgency, and the white colonizers. Postcoloniality has left room for a new hierarchy to establish itself, and the different groups of people are struggling to find their identity and their place. There is a direct relationship between indistinct identities and (post)colonialism as Martine Beugnet highlights “[Denis’] refusal of clearly demarcated identities is a product of her interest in the legacy of colonialism as it shapes her characters.”17 As this new order is being sorted out, and despite the racial binary opposition of the order under colonization, whites and blacks explore relationships amongst themselves. Maria has a questionably sensual relationship with the Mayor, and her ex-husband fathered a child with an African woman on the plantation. As we’ve already discussed, erotic relationships between natives and colonizers are also prevalent in Chocolat between Aimé and Protée. Twenty years later, these relationships are still portrayed as not accepted in the culture. The white person’s attempt to establish themselves and further create ties to the country and to the land are futile because none of that changes the color of their skin, which is the reason for their continual rejection, a rejection transcending decades. Again, we see how Denis’ films highlight racial tensions which are exacerbated by the racial hierarchy created by colonization; however, this time she does so through the othering of a white female lead (compared to the black male lead in Chocolat). To recall Williams’ argument that Denis’ first feature film breaks with the ideological frame of the Other, we see that same structure in White Material, this time with a white, French woman being othered through her race and gender. This section proposes

16 Dyer, p. 89. 17 Beugnet, p. 7. 11 reading Denis’ representation of post-coloniality in this more recent feature by the director in order to argue that otherness is always constituted by others and is therefore implicitly ambiguous. There is no ‘one size fits all’ definition for the other, it is always forced upon someone by a culture’s norms, values, and constituents. (A clear example that Other is dependent upon external factors is that both Protée and Maria are considered to be Other in their respective films. Protée is a black, African man and Maria is a white, French woman indicating that otherness does not imply an inherent race, nationality or gender.) The ambiguity in Maria’s identity is shaped by the opposition between her inability to distinguish between her otherness and her difference. This is seen through the actions she takes, and the way Denis frames both Maria and the African characters in the film. Since Other is subjective, there is much uncertainty and intricacy involved in questioning or representing it. Denis’ filmmaking is filled with ambiguity in both White Material and more obviously in her 2009 feature 35 rhums. 35 rhums follows the lives of a French-African family living in the Parisian suburbs, and outlines complex, intimate, familial relationships. The characters in 35 rhums and in White Material all lack a distinct and definitive identity within themselves along with undetermined relationships amongst the characters. Due to this ambiguity, it is easier to see who the characters are not and what they do not do, instead of trying to draw concrete conclusions in the affirmative. Martine Beugnet recognizes Denis’ focus on the ambiguous and how her filmmaking never ceases to question definitions and value systems based on binary oppositions, where the Other is reduced to what “I/we are not”, where foreignness and differences are stigmatized and fetishized so as to reinforce, by contrast, our feeling of belonging to a unified, coherent community. On the contrary, in her films, the perception of the Other is always complex and ambiguous. As the foreign body, neither fully defined nor fully understood, otherness may trigger fear or rejection.18

Beugnet’s use of terms of negation and absence to describe the Other as opposed to using difference is worth pause. This is because we can see that the Other is what the norm is not or lacks what is inherent to the understood norm. Denis uses negation, i.e. the absence of something concrete, to enhance her use of ambiguity throughout the film, frequently extracting information from the screen mainly through her methods of framing (which we will see in the next

18 Beugnet, p. 3. 12 paragraph). The tension felt throughout White Material and much of the ambiguity in identity is due in part to the relationship between the colonizer and the colonized. Something Maria seems to ignore is that it is her status as colonizer that brought her to this nation and she naively searches for an inclusive atmosphere throughout the film – a goal perpetuated by her inability to see herself as Other, and everyone else’s perception of her as ‘white material’, which ultimately does not belong. That is not to say that she does not see her difference. She is aware of her special status and welcomes the benefits it provides (and protection until the military’s departure) as we will explore later in this chapter. The ambiguity of Maria’s identity as Other can be seen through her actions and her indecisiveness to establish herself. Therefore, Maria constantly throws herself into this country that does not want her. Andrew Asibong also reads Maria’s inability to belong in both of the film’s temporalities: In both the diegetic present and past though, Maria increasingly emerges as a creature simultaneously squeezed out of and pressed into the African spaces she attempts to inhabit, on the one hand too tiny to be able to move with ease across the gigantic, blocked-off terrain, on the other hand too big, too unwieldy, too white to pass through its nooks and crannies unnoticed.19

This is evident from the beginning of the film during the “diegetic present” when Maria is trying to find her way back to her family and back to her plantation, long after the French military’s departure. She flags down a public transportation bus and after being told there is no space inside, she rides on the back ladder. Maria is obtrusive and out of place riding on the back and instead of riding on the top with other Africans, so much so that Denis almost cuts her from the frame completely, extracting her from the image. She chooses to remain on the outskirts and does not interject herself in that communal space. If Maria truly does not see herself as Other and considers herself to be part of the African community, then why does she actively choose to keep herself separate? This act is constitutive of the ambiguity Denis seeks to demonstrate – Maria’s identity and understanding of herself remains undefined, and thus she resides in this limbo space represented by the ladder on the back of the bus. Not only does this moment highlight the undefined nature of her identity, but it is full of the temporal and spatial ambiguity that distorts

19 Asibong, Andrew. “Claire Denis's Flickering Spaces of Hospitality.” L'Esprit Créateur, vol. 51, no. 1, 2011, pp. 154–167: p. 160. 13

Maria’s place as a white, female Other. Since this scene occurs at the beginning of the film, there is a lack of context to indicate her position as either Other or oppressor, victim or perpetrator, or even protagonist (which remains in question for much of the film). In other words, the spectator does not have enough information to situate Maria and her place in the diegesis. The scene is also framed using the concept of a close-up, which extracts context; however, the lack of information is temporal instead of spatial. The shaky handheld camera keeps close to Maria, filming her from behind and tilted upwards so that the ground is not in the frame. The frame itself seems removed from the film’s timeline, just as Maria keeps herself set apart. Conversely, moments later she clambers aboard the same bus that doesn’t have any room for her, squeezing herself into a space she clearly does not fit or belong. Maria believes she can navigate these public spaces as anyone else would, as if she is not Other. For Asibong, it is the coffee-plantation manager Maria (Isabelle Huppert) who harbors a misplaced belief that she can negotiate the space of the post-colonial plantation – and of Africa itself – in such a way that her relations with the black people working there can be simultaneously intimate and mutually hospitable,... 20

To add to Asibong’s reading, I would argue that moving from public spaces to more private ones makes even more evident Maria’s feelings of intimacy and hospitality towards the workers she hires for her plantation. One large indication of the intimacy between Maria and her workers is that they use the French informal “tu” to address one another. This is implicit of a friendliness, and a lack of a hierarchy that should perhaps exist between a boss and their employees. After her former workers depart, heeding the warning from the French military, Maria goes in search of more help. When she arrives at someone’s home seeking out workers, the camera scans the surroundings imitating Maria’s gaze, showing only trees and cabins with no sign of working men. Maria is told to stay while one woman goes to ask a man, and once he agrees, more men come out from hiding. We have seen this effect of men emerging from the land as if part of it earlier in the film when the rebels are seen walking through the woods. Both scenes have the sense that the land protects the men walking through the trees, in the same way that it does not protect Maria as she is walking and riding on the red dirt. The effect is intimidating since they emerge as if from the land itself, clearly mistrustful of the white woman who has come to offer

20 Asibong, 160.

14 them money and a job. The attitude of trust, intimacy, and friendliness Maria is so hopeful for and confident about, is evidently not returned. Furthermore, later that evening, after a day’s work, Maria carts out a wheelbarrow filled with food ingredients and leads her new workers to a dark room with no electricity where dirty mattresses have been crammed together as a place for them to sleep. This moment appears to be in contradiction with what Maria is striving for in this country. In this moment, as she walks back to her large home and bedroom with electricity and running water, she is demonstrating that there is an inequality between herself and her workers. A large inequality, from which she benefits. Her body language as she goes back to her home lacks any sign of guilt, instead it appears routine. As an afterthought, she points the new workers to the water pump, where they can get water for themselves. It is almost impossible not to associate this moment with slavery, which is the colonial past reiterated into the present with this gesture. Black men staying in a cramped, dirty room full of the bare minimum, and the white plantation owner staying in a large house for just a few people. The effect is revolting, and the disappointment is reflected in the close-ups of the men’s faces. While the men are clearly upset, they accept without challenging Maria, which demonstrates how they accept their position as lesser than, even in their own country. This moment shows that while Maria wants desperately to be accepted by this country, she is unwilling to give up her privileged status, regardless of whether that’s a conscious or unconscious decision, indicating the power of coloniality. Maria As Other The first shot we see of Maria Vial is a close-up of her face as she walks down a dirt road. Every detail of this scene is designed to blend Maria into her surroundings: her pink dress coupled with her strawberry hair complement the red dirt. The camera switches to a wide shot as Maria continues to walk on the dirt, her body blending into, and also set apart from, the African soil with her face and body in focus and the background blurry and obscured with dirt. This is not the first time Denis depicts elements that do not belong to a ‘natural’ landscape in colonized Africa. Just as she is interested in opposing and questioning binaries created and enforced by people, she demonstrates an interest in what land will accept and reject, seen even in her first film. Denis includes traces of human presence to pose as an unwelcome presence and James

Williams takes it so far as to say that these traces “defile the natural environment”21. The traces he’s referring to is a French flag positioned in front of a white French family’s home and serve as a reminder of Cameroon’s place in the colonized hierarchy, subjected to France, as depicted in Denis’ earlier film, Chocolat. It is necessary to ask the question: who determines what defiles an environment? It becomes a question of human culture, and what belongs versus what is intruding on that space, as established by its people. For Williams, the French presence intrudes and defiles the African landscape in this sequence. Similarly, turning back to our analysis of White Material, we might read Maria as another example of an (unwanted) French presence that defiles this (unnamed) African country. For the purpose of this work, it is not that she ‘defiles’ the land, but her presence serves as a reminder of colonization, taking away from the land and the people’s autonomy as a nation. Denis demonstrates Maria’s unnatural presence, as determined by society, in the way she frames her throughout the film. Maria is frequently shot using a handheld camera; the constant unpredictable movement creates a strong sense of instability. There is one moment in particular where Denis juxtaposes Maria’s freedom with her volatility. First, her portrayal as an independent, free person plays into the societal and thus racialized construction that you must be free, and an individual, to be human (a human, of course, meaning white unless otherwise specified). Concerning the relationship between autonomous peoples and individuality, Dyer argues that white society has found it hard to see non-white people as individuals; the very notion of the individual, of the freely developing, autonomous human person, is only applicable to those who are seen to be free and autonomous, who are not slaves or subject peoples.22

Freedom and autonomy historically imply racism and its hierarchies, and in this context refer to the oppression of the colonized peoples. Towards the beginning of the film, during a flashback sequence which precedes the French military’s departure, Maria is riding a motorbike through the African countryside. The camera keeps such a tight proximity to Maria that each shot is a close-up, and it is this closeness that exaggerates the shakiness of the handheld camera producing a nauseating effect as the camera denies the spectator’s attempts to orient themselves. The close- up of Maria is implicative of a certain transcendence from the frame. Denis extracts other details,

21 Williams, p. 238. 22 Dyer, p. 102. 16 focusing on the coloring of the land, and Maria’s movement, which gives the impression that she extends beyond the frame, exaggerating her liberty. The details provided by Denis throughout the sequence show how Maria has tried to integrate herself and believes herself to be part of the land. Her red hair, which fills the screen at moments, blends in with the red soil and dried trees she passes on her bicycle. For several moments Maria has her eyes closed as she tilts her head up towards the sky, reveling in a false sense of freedom and security. The camera pans to her hands covered in dirt, with the clear blue sky as their backdrop. Instead of blending her skin with the environment, Denis creates a stark contrast, further denying Maria’s status as belonging. Since Maria’s eyes are closed, she opens herself up to her other senses. Instead of hearing sounds of the land and the environment, the sound in this moment is overwhelmed by the motorcycle and extradiegetic music from the soundtrack; it’s as if Maria numbs herself to the sounds around her, closing her eyes so that she cannot see her whiteness. She is at once immersing herself in nature and completely ignorant of her surroundings. Not only does Denis show that Maria does not belong, but she tells us through the dialogue between the mayor and Maria towards the end of the film. As he takes her back to her plantation to discover her family almost entirely dead, he tells her that “extrême blondeur attire une forme de malheur” [extreme blondness brings bad luck].23 He adds that even her son, Manuel, who was born in the country, is rejected by it because he is ‘white material’. Before stating these facts, the camera appears inside the car with the two characters; however, afterwards the car window separates the camera from Maria. While the image is still in close-up, there is an immediate sense of distance and detachment from Maria, creating a form of mediation in which she is perhaps beginning to recognize and accept herself as Other, realizing that she is the purest form of the film’s eponymous ‘white material’, a term the film uses to describe the white colonizers.24 The mayor has to literally tell Maria that she is white for her to realize and see that she does not conform to what this African culture sees and accepts. The mayor sees and accepts Maria into his world; however, he speaks on behalf of his people when he tells her she does not belong. There is a hybridity of acceptance among the peoples of the country; however, full acceptance isn’t possible until “we see whiteness, see its power, its particularity and limitedness, put it in its place and end its rule. This is why studying whiteness matters. It is

23 Denis, Claire. White Material. 2010. All translations from French are my own. 24 Ibid. 32nd minute. 17 studying whiteness qua whiteness.”25 Denis’ film provides the possibility for what Dyer describes as “genuine hybridity” through the interracial relationships and friendly relationships (between Maria and the people working at the pharmacy). Not only is Maria rejected by the African people, but her inability to see her own whiteness disallows this hybridity. Being Other can often be used interchangeably, though not synonymously, with being different. For the purpose of this work, difference refers to what lies outside the norm of the dominant culture. An important distinction to make between being different and being Other is that while they are both subjective, difference can also be seen objectively. It is an objective statement that two people are different based on the color of their skin, and it is a subjective statement to say someone is Other than the norm based on personal – or perhaps societal – ideologies. For Kristin Hole, Denis’ works express feminist values through the exploration of difference, which occurs through Denis’s interest in characters who are not white (in contrast to the vast majority of European and North American cinema), in teenagers with little hope for the future, in criminals, in underdogs, and in those whose desires render them deviant, all of which resonates with feminism’s interest in opening up the category of the human to make it more inclusive to those who are subject to the violence of marginality, invisibility, or stereotypical and stock representations.26

Therefore, while Maria is a part of the colonizers (French) and therefore would not be considered as marginalized, she inhabits a decolonized space and her identity of French sets her apart as Other. She persists as a colonial presence even after decolonization, and her presence implies a tacit history of the oppression caused by colonization. What makes her “difference” interesting is not only her “whiteness” but also her gender. Unlike Denis’s other works referred to by Hole above, the main character (I’m hesitant to call her the protagonist since she plays a role in her own undoing) in White Material is a white, French woman living in an unnamed (post)colonial African country. Maria’s whiteness others her not only in the film’s diegesis, but also in the grand scheme of Denis’s work, looking back even at just the few films mentioned thus far (35 rhums, Chocolat). The departure of the French army at the beginning of the film places Maria in the category of the minority and strips her of the protection once provided by the color of her

25 Dyer, p. 12. 26 Hole, Kristin Lené. Towards a Feminist Cinematic Ethics. Edinburgh University Press. 2016, p. 7. 18 skin. Maria’s desire to stay in Africa and defy the order to return to France renders her a deviant and causes her family to be at the center of an intentional violence, thus aligning Maria with the alienated position of many of Denis’ other protagonists, such as Protée. This deviance is founded by Maria’s perception of herself as not being Other, as alluded to by the camera throughout the film. The fact that Denis chose to focus on a white ‘heroine’ in postcolonial Africa adds another layer of depth to what Hole describes as “opening up the category of the human”27, seeing as Maria is simultaneously majority and minority. Throughout history we can see that oftentimes what is considered “human” is determined by those in power. For example, in times of American slavery, the white men in power allocated rights to other white men, leaving women and black people without basic rights such as the right to vote. Seeing as White Material takes place in a (post)colonized nation in Africa, hegemonic systems have placed white people in a position of power. Where Maria’s whiteness is concerned, she is a member of a race which holds the dominant view or rather that “whites are not of a certain race, they’re just the human race.”28 In a different setting, Maria’s whiteness would not carry the same weight as it does in this film which emphasizes the racial binary. This is what makes context important when the focus is of a white woman in the cinema, and why paying attention to and addressing Maria’s whiteness as such is very important. Where gender is concerned, women already constitute a certain “to-be-looked-at- ness”, a term coined by Laura Mulvey which addresses the “exhibitionist role” women have played on screen, constructed by the gendered camera. Maria strives to not be controlled by the male gaze throughout the film, walking in and out of the cinematic frame as she pleases, hiding her face and her body by angling herself from the camera, denying the scopophilic pleasure of her “to-be-looked-at-ness”. There is one moment where Maria is dressing herself at the end of the film, in the same pink dress she is wearing at the beginning. Instead of sexualizing Maria, as is often seen in Hollywood films, Maria stands naked with her back to the camera, only the back of her head visible. The pink dress fills the screen in a close-up, denying the spectator access to Maria’s body. In another sequence, Maria searches for her son Manuel (Nicolas Duvauchelle) through the house. The camera rests at the end of the hallway in a fixed position as Maria walks in front of it, moving in and out of the screen and the interior framing of the hallway, all the while with her back facing the camera. This is her escape from the male gaze. The white gaze of

27 Ibid., p. 7. 28 Dyer, p. 11. 19 the camera isn’t as easily avoidable for Maria. Her whiteness in and of itself does not stand out, due to the fact that we historically do not study whiteness – it is her whiteness in an African land that demands to be looked at and examined. Maria is simply a person, a member of the dominant race, which perhaps attributes to her inability to see herself as Other because she is simply ‘human’. Denis denies this white gaze by frequently shooting Maria’s silhouette instead of a frontal shot. This notion is perpetuated by the camera as apparatus since its conception, a camera designed for people, people of course meaning white people. The otherness incited by Maria’s whiteness extends to her family as well; her family, and specifically her son Manuel are perceived as Other in the film. Manuel is in an even more peculiar situation than his mother, seeing that he was born and raised on African soil. He is every bit as African – legally – as the other black children. However, the land rejects him owing to his white skin. After two rebel children assault Manuel, strip him of his clothes, and cut off a bit of his hair, he has what could be considered as a psychotic break. In an extremely intimate moment, Manuel shaves his head, what is symbolic of his difference, and something he can get rid of, unlike his skin color. He then joins ranks with the rebels and guides them to raid his home of food and other items. This is Manuel’s attempt to move beyond his status as Other. Since this isn’t possible with the existing social structure, he sees this group of rebels as his chance to rewrite his place in the country. Although he tries, Manuel cannot be anything but Other. A point with which Williams agrees and observes “There is no beyond to the Other, no real beyond of the frame. Except the spectacle of yet more fear and violence.”29 The violence referred to by Williams comes in full force: each of the members of the young rebel army are executed in their sleep, and Manuel is burned alive. It appears that violence is unavoidable for the Other. Denis solidifies this inevitability by beginning and ending the movie with the scene of violence and death to the Other.

29 Williams, 279. 20

3: THE SEARCH FOR IDENTITY

The worst thing that colonialism did was cloud our view of the past. Barack Obama30

Mati Diop’s first feature film, Atlantique (2019) is a story of migration seen through the eyes of those left behind. The plot focuses on the main character, Ada (Mame Bineta Sané), who longs for the safe return of her love, Souleiman (Ibrahima Traoré), after his failed migration attempt across the Atlantic from Senegal to Spain. Souleiman and his friends are pushed to the ocean after not being paid the wages they are owed from construction on a new tower which looms over their village. Through recurring images of the ocean, which come to structure the film, Diop plays with the dichotomy of absence and presence. After their departure, the camera remains inland with Ada and the others who did not venture out to sea. Ada is torn between waiting for her lost love and accepting her new life with a man she has been arranged to marry, part of her duty to her family. Her wedding day is ruined when her marriage bed is set ablaze and her friends claim to have seen her lost love Souleiman lurking in the shadows. Strange things begin to happen as a fever descends upon the city at night. The climactic ending sees Ada and Souleiman reunited after Souleiman’s soul possesses another man in the city. The previous chapter argued the Othering of a female protagonist and explored the ambiguity of her identity in (post)colonial Africa. Mati Diop’s film is important in the conversation surrounding identity – specifically women’s identity in postcolonial countries – and serves to show how to break out of the identity assigned by society. This full-length feature comes ten years after Mati Diop’s short film, entitled Atlantiques (2009). This earlier version of the tale is notable in its differences and similarities, both the title in the plural and Diop’s use of documentary-style editing featuring Senegalese men who also attempted to migrate to Spain. One of the lines from the film’s dialogue is a response to the fact that the ocean has no borders and “yet it offers no branches to hold onto.”31 This quote encapsulates, for me, the image of what the Atlantic is for migrating peoples; an ocean that offers seemingly endless opportunities, yet does nothing to help people take them. People from colonized countries, like the characters in Atlantique, are in search of an identity separate from

30 Obama, Barack. Dreams from My Father. 1995, p. 434. 31 Diop, Mati. Atlantiques. 2009. 21 colonization, hopefully one that eradicates the need to migrate across an indomitable ocean.32 The new globalized and interconnected world around them remains inaccessible (despite its foundation on the backs of their unpaid labor) and they are trying to figure out their role and how they can belong to this new world. In Atlantique, Diop implicitly questions identity, specifically how Ada searches for and finds a new identity, of race, gender, and national belonging, throughout the film by means of the ocean and the supernatural. Much like Denis, Diop hones in on framing techniques and subtle decisions in narrative and costume to further explore these motifs. Both auteurs utilize framing to create and subsequently break down ideological boundaries of class and race. In order to appreciate and analyze Mati Diop’s Atlantique, it is necessary to first understand the history and weight of the title. The Atlantic is not only a body of water or a space connecting peoples, but carries a rich history describing the migration and hardships faced by people of different cultures. Therefore, the title of her film calls out and engages its racialized history. Furthermore, the Island of Gorée, the largest slave trading center on the African coast for four centuries, sits in the bay opposite Dakar, where the film takes place.33 The Atlantic represents more than an ocean, also a space of passage, an opportunity, and even a death sentence. Paul Gilroy’s book indicates there is a racial difference in the perception of the Atlantic Ocean.34 His book, titled The Black Atlantic, implies the content of the book will be geared towards the history of the Atlantic, specifically its relationship to black people. One large example he uses to underline the racial difference is the Mid-Atlantic Slave Trade, which transported slaves from Africa to different countries in the world, mainly North America. Using this as an example, it is obvious how the White Atlantic differs from Gilroy’s black one, meaning white people have a more privileged relationship to the Atlantic. During the slave trade it was not uncommon for enslaved people to be thrown from the ship and drown in the Atlantic due to various additional reasons. Another example of how the Atlantic was used to further racial discrimination is colonization, something Senegal is still trying to free itself from today. Slave trade and colonization were mobilizing events that displaced many Africans through force (slave trade) and by disrupting the job market and economy. At one point in his book, Gilroy comments

32 Original dialogue in Wolof, French, and Arabic. 33 Centre, UNESCO World Heritage. “Island of Gorée.” UNESCO World Heritage Centre, 34 Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic. Harvard University Press. Cambridge, Massachusetts. 1993. 22 on this type of travel and location politics which he says are “especially important in the history of the black Atlantic, where movement, relocation, displacement, and restlessness are the norms rather than the exceptions…”.35 This kind of displacement is exactly what Diop examines in both Atlantiques and Atlantique. Diop portrays the normalcy of migration first in Atlantiques most predominantly through the setting of the film. The Senegalese men are sitting around a campfire talking about taking a boat to Spain and potentially dying as if they were talking about the weather. There is no added cinematographic effect to enhance or dramatize this scene, Diop serves as a witness to an everyday conversation. This documentary realism highlights the truth of migration, a truth that her fictional feature draws from and is seen through the ambiguity and subtleties of the plot such as Ada being forced into a marriage due to oppressive gender roles despite her longing for Souleiman, and her friends urging her to carry on with her life as if nothing has changed. Therefore, we see that there is a historical and cultural sense of normality in people (specifically black people) migrating across the Atlantic and risking their lives for a chance at a better life. The violence of migration is a remnant of colonization and a driving factor for Ada to reclaim her identity at the end of the film. Decentering the Human The presence and importance of the Atlantic, as we have just discussed, is not lost throughout the film as Diop places intermittent, recurring images of the ocean, an ocean which is linked historically to the whims (violent and unjust) of human culture. These images often fill the entire screen giving the impression that the water extends beyond what the viewer can see, past the limits of the frame, allowing the ocean to transcend the frame. This transcendence breaks the boundaries imposed by the cinematic frame, representing the opportunity the ocean offers to surpass geographic limits. Multiple times these images are only water, without the sky or horizon line included. This only adds to the ocean’s transcendence of the frame since the camera pans across the waves, attempting to give the spectator a larger view, alluding to the sky above without ever granting the scopophilic pleasure. While there are many instances when the ocean controls the frame, as just mentioned, it also frequently serves as a backdrop for a scene, be it visually or aurally. At first, we see the ocean as an object, since we see it first as the object of Souleiman’s gaze, and therefore it does not command an active role on the screen. As an object,

35 Ibid, p. 133. 23 the ocean upsets the visibility of the other characters, a disruption Diop returns to over and over again, intercutting between shots of the characters. In the diegesis, the ocean even serves to physically separate Ada and Souleiman, a separation mimicked by the train which divides them in the beginning of the film.36 In that scene Ada and Souleiman meet for the first time in the film’s diegesis on opposite sides of train tracks. Diop shows each in close-up and uses several shot counter-shots to connect the images, always seen with the train passing in front of their faces. There is a dichotomy of separation and togetherness in this sequence as the train physically separates them while the montage connects the images of Ada and Souleiman. The position of the train between the character and the camera is important because it keeps them physically distant and foreshadows their imminent separation. Offscreen the ocean also keeps the viewer from Souleiman after he departs for Spain, he is lost in its vast body of unforgiving waves. However, the ocean does not act solely as an object in Diop’s Atlantique. Instead, the ocean takes the place of the subject and “decenters” the human who, in this case, are the other characters in the film (those left behind being the most affected). The idea of the ocean “decentring the human”37 comes from Erika Balsom’s An Oceanic Feeling: Cinema and the Sea, in which she argues that “oceanic feeling” is “a quasi-sublime state in which the integrity of the self is lost, or at least compromised, in a sense of limitlessness, unboundedness, and interconnectedness”.38 I will go so far as to argue that in Atlantique it is only the ocean as a subject which makes possible the effect of “decentring the human”, which ultimately raises questions of human identity. Characters and people are typically in the position of the subject; therefore, by placing the ocean in this position and moving the characters to the place of the object they are not in control of their own identity. It is the subject’s perception of them that defines who they are. This is a direct parallel to historical events of the Atlantic Slave Trade and colonization. Senegalese peoples have been in the position of the object in these two examples and by decentering the characters in the film, Diop provides the opportunity for them to take back and even redefine their identity, symbolically doing the same for the larger population of

36 Diop, Mati. Atlantique. 2019. 8th minute. 37 Balsom, Erika. An Oceanic Feeling: Cinema and the Sea. Govett-Brewster Art Gallery. 2018. p. 9. 38 Ibid, p. 9. 24

Senegal.39 We will see how Diop demonstrates the ocean as a subject mainly through its unframing and the movement, or lack thereof, of the camera. The ocean is seen as a subject when it separates two shots of Souleiman and Ada, each alone in their frame. This is a critical scene because they are only shot together briefly, each time the camera separates them, foreshadowing the more permanent separation which follows. The image cuts from a medium shot of Souleiman looking at the ocean, which is off-screen, then to the ocean itself. The perspective of the camera is similar to what Souleiman’s perspective of the ocean would be; however, the way Diop frames the ocean unsettles what could be a typical shot counter-shot. Diop uses a static camera, far too still to imitate a human gaze, and in direct contrast with the slight shakiness of the camera in the preceding shot. This shakiness echoes that of Denis’ in White Material and simultaneously creates a natural and unsteady feel. Furthermore, there is nothing else in the frame other than the ocean, nothing to link this image to the previous one of Souleiman. These elements make it appear as if it is the ocean who is looking at Souleiman, and not the other way around, thus taking the focus away from Souleiman and decentering him. The image of the ocean itself is a long shot with the brightness distorting the horizon line which falls somewhere in the middle of the screen. The moving waves are audible as the ocean’s tide is taking the water from left to right as it flows off the screen. Even after the image cuts to Ada walking in the street, the soft hum of the waves creates a sound bridge that simultaneously connects the two images and imposes the ocean’s presence on Ada as she walks along the street. Therefore, what this does is take the importance and concentration off of these two young lovers and remind the viewer of the ocean’s presence, and dominance over Ada and Souleiman. Another moment where Diop emphasizes the ocean’s importance over that of the human is when Ada and her fiancé, Omar (Babacar Silla), are at a country club overlooking the ocean as the time of day nears sunset. Overwhelmingly, one hears the sound of the ocean’s waves as Omar exits the pool and the image cuts to the ocean. Instead of only showing the ocean, Diop combines this natural force with two cultural elements. There is a large statue of a human face sitting on the edge of the pool at the club. The angle of the shot makes the water from the pool appear to flow right into the water of the sea, and if you aren’t careful, you might not notice the

39 Decentering the human works in tandem (in this work) with the ocean as subject. This does not mean the characters are not physically centered in the frame. 25 separation between what is natural and what is artificial. The human face is at the center of the screen and yet, the ocean and the water are the focus of the image. The setting sun in the background illuminates and animates the water while the statue stands in its own shadow; its presence is obvious, and yet the lighting hides the statue. Human presence is at the center of this image, and yet the ocean once again decenters it. Additionally, several elements of the statue imply that it is at the mercy of the ocean. First, there are numerous holes along the side of the face, an intentional artistic choice, but which give the impression of deterioration, possibly deterioration caused by the ocean. Secondly, it is swaying in the wind, looking as though it could break off and fall into the watery depths beneath it. The deterioration and movement of the statue make it appear that it is an object at the mercy of the ocean, which is of course the subject. Finally, the eyes on the statue are closed. There is a sense of acceptance about the closed eyes implying harmony and contentment between the statue and its surroundings, i.e. the ocean. The ocean’s presence is not only seen but felt and heard; the ocean’s waves become part of the fabric of the film, flowing in and out of every scene. To return to Gilroy and the argument that the ocean has shaped human identity throughout history, this scene is a snapshot of that idea. The image lasts but a few seconds, yet its impact and its message are strong. Just like the previous analysis, the ocean appears to flow off the screen, bleeding through and beyond the image to where we cannot see. This particular method of framing reminds the viewer of the expanse of the ocean, and the fact that there is much more to it than what could be captured on screen. In the diegesis, this is a specific reminder of the boys who went out to sea and are no longer visible to us. Even though Diop does not take us out to sea with the boys, the ocean becomes a metonymy for their presence. Souleiman is accused of setting Ada’s marital bed on fire which sends the detective to his home to find him and take him in for questioning. While walking around Souleiman’s empty room, the sound of the ocean is clearly heard, giving the ocean (and by metonymy Souleiman) an aural presence. Almost as if he were following the sound of the waves, the detective looks out through some slits in Souleiman’s wall, out towards the sea. These slits provide an interior frame from which Diop can show the ocean and link the images; however, she chooses to abandon this frame and let the bright, borderless ocean fill the entire screen. The ocean the detective is (possibly) looking at is reminiscent of the one Souleiman looked at in the beginning; the ocean is framed and lit in an extremely similar manner. Once

26 again, the handheld camera shakes as it tracks the detective walking through Souleiman’s room, yet when the ocean appears, the camera becomes motionless and allows the movement of the waves to take control of the shot. The fixed camera again gives the impression that it is the ocean who is looking, and that it is the ocean who is in control. Ironically, while the detective is searching for Souleiman in his bedroom, he looks out at the ocean, the same ocean carrying Souleiman’s body, and the ocean looks back at him. The sense that the ocean is the one doing the looking decenters the detective and changes him from subject to the object of the ocean’s gaze and places his identity at the ocean’s mercy. Those Left Behind If we return to Gilroy’s notion of the Atlantic as a space of migration, it conveys the sense of a vast liminal space: in between cultures, in between nations, and in between continents. In this section we will see how culture is at the root of this migration state, and what happens to those who are left behind.40 The beginning of the film introduces the juxtaposing forces of culture and nature through the character Souleiman. As he rides home from his construction job the camera imitates his gaze via a tracking shot from left to right of the ocean and its shore at the bottom of the frame. This shot follows a scene in which the boys are not paid their wages and complain of being unable to support their families. Therefore, the tracking shot imitates more than just his gaze, but also his longing for a better life, thus transforming the ocean from a border to a means by which to leave. With no other option, and due to the culture of poverty in which they live, the boys take to the ocean. The ocean, which once served as a boundary, confined them to their village, and forced them to remain in poverty, transforms into a space of passage and migration, albeit a dangerous one. A significant feature to note about this scene is the haze which clouds what could be a clear shot of the ocean. The haze could be representative of Souleiman’s indecision to cross the sea or obscure his vision of what the future holds. The haze also demonstrates the versatility of the ocean, its definition not being clear-cut. The ocean has already transformed from boundary to opportunity for Souleiman and those who choose to migrate and is also representative of a passage between different lands, something I will explore later in this chapter.

40 Culture here is being used in the sense of “society” and its oppressive, hierarchical representation. 27

The penultimate representation of the culture that forces the migration attempt – specifically the capitalistic culture – in Atlantique is the gargantuan tower which is under construction and which looms menacingly over the city. Diop uses the tower to demonstrate the power of capitalism and the displacement it causes to people mainly of a lower socio-economic status. In an interview, Diop says the idea for her tower comes from a large pyramid-shaped building the governor had intended to create in Dakar, the capital of Senegal.41 This building was never built, and ironically, the tower in the film only exists inside the film considering it was created with CGI post-production. There is an image at nighttime showing both the ocean and the village bordering it. The tower looms in the background covered in haze, nearly obscured by the darkness. The placement of both the ocean and the tower in the image is important, with the ocean in the foreground it implies what we already know: culture pushes people of lesser means into the ocean, into this liminal space of migration. The tower could also be read as a phallic symbol (in its shape and in its symbolization of power) which underlines the social feminist tensions created by migration: the men leave, the women stay, and their lives are controlled by the men who weren’t forced to leave. For instance, Souleiman leaves on a boat in the middle of the night, and Ada is left in Senegal where her life is to be controlled by her family. An important point for Diop’s storytelling is the focus on the women who remain, instead of following the boys out to sea to show their eventual death, because they are the only ones who bear witness. The boys’ presence is still felt throughout the film, as previously stated, through the ocean’s incessant presence on and off the screen. People who are left behind, like Ada, are left to carry on with their lives possibly without ever knowing what has happened to their loved one. Diop presents this dilemma with a voiceover, which overlays an image of only the ocean, as Ada recounts a story about Souleiman. There is no way to prove that the story Ada tells is the truth, or simply a fiction she made up or even dreamt. The image of the ocean, again unframed, its waves exceeding the limits of the frame, begins in darkness, the horizon line obscured, combining sky with sea. As Ada continues with the story of Souleiman’s lifeless body being dragged ashore by a fisherman the image progressively lightens, showing the passage of time. The image is ambiguous, much like the fate of the boys who went out to sea. The unframed ocean could be any ocean anywhere in the world. It is also unclear whether the image is a close-up or a long shot

41 Lim, Dennis. “Crossing Over”. Film Comment. July-Aug. 2019. p. 38. 28 due to the immeasurable size of the ocean. The uncertainty of Souleiman’s fate is echoed in the cinematography during this scene through the ocean’s ambiguous representation. Ada’s fate is much less ambiguous as Diop highlights the position and oppression of women throughout the film. The narrative makes clear that Ada is powerless in her life choices due to the fact that she is a woman and the social institutions surrounding her which restrict her right to choose. She has been arranged to marry Omar, even though she loves Souleiman, and is forced to undergo a humiliating virginity test. Ada is ordered to go to the doctor’s office because Omar’s parents want to be sure Ada is a virgin before marrying their son. This in and of itself makes apparent the double standard of the patriarchal society in Senegal as represented by Diop. The scene is shot slowly and excruciatingly in a long take and then showing a close-up of Ada’s emotional face during the “procedure” as the spectator is forced to share in the humiliation of the experience with Ada. One small detail Diop includes in this scene is the hijab that Ada wears on her head, it is a minor costume detail (much like the way Denis subtly uses costume) which has a large effect. This detail demonstrates the power and influence of religion and its perception in society. After this uncomfortable sequence Ada walks to a café to meet her friend Dior (Nicole Sougou). At the café, the hijab which once framed Ada’s head is seen draped around her neck like a scarf. This is not the only time Ada wears the hijab to present a proper female appearance to public authority. When Ada is questioned by the police at the police station, she is also seen wearing the black hijab. This detail in costume highlights the importance of a female’s appearance and presenting the right look. Since Ada has been left behind by Souleiman and is bound to the land and therefore the laws and customs that govern it, she remains oppressed as a woman. However, her defiance of these typical customs, as seen in her removal of the hijab, shows that she is trying to break from society’s mold for her. There is a progression throughout the film of Ada’s clothing and hairstyle choices which runs parallel to Ada coming into her own identity. Her hesitation and ability to choose is seen as she is walking along the beach after Souleiman’s departure. Ada walks towards the camera with the ocean on her left and the land and her village on her right. The ocean and the land represent a choice she must make between Souleiman (her freedom) and Omar (a life chosen for her) respectively. At first her head is down, seen in a medium shot, staring at her feet as she walks. Then as she lifts her gaze her eyes begin straight ahead then slowly move left towards the ocean, looking out towards Souleiman,

29 wherever he may be. Her eyes flicker back towards center, darting back and forth as if deciding where it is okay to look. She settles her gaze back out towards the sea, more confidently as she eventually turns her whole head in that direction, consciously choosing Souleiman and her freedom from a life oppressed by an arranged marriage to a man she does not love. Behind Ada the beach and ocean are visible to the spectator. We watch her walk away from her past, never looking backwards, her gaze intent on a future hidden from the spectator and only visible to Ada. This future is determined by her own choices as opposed to society’s expectations and is only realized after she is left behind. Diop’s Ghost World In a surprising twist to the movie’s seemingly mundane plot, the boys’ souls return to possess women’s bodies, evoking what some might consider phantasmic, and what others might consider to be local folklore. During one scene of this supernatural possession, a possessed girl tells Ada the story of their death on the ocean as their raft is overtaken by a giant wave. Thus, they never make it to their destination and are stuck in this liminal space, in this purgatory. Their souls are lost to the sea, their corporeal bodies bound to the ocean in which they will forever reside. If we believe the ocean to serve as an in-between space connecting land, it is a logical jump that it would also act as a purgatory for souls lost at sea. In an interview about the film, Diop describes how “you experience the ocean very differently when you know a lot of people have disappeared there.”42 The water is no longer a space connecting land, or a space of passage, or a habitat for marine life, but also a deathtrap and a graveyard. Images of the ocean throughout the film express its versatility through differences in lighting, proximity, and the soundtrack layered with the images. The death of someone seems much less concrete without the confirmation or the recovery of their body, which is what Ada struggles with in Atlantique, and furthers the idea of the ocean as a purgatory since it places a question mark over the fate of those lost at sea. If the ocean is a purgatory for these dead boys, then the lighthouse Diop fixates on in Atlantiques is calling them home to their loved ones. This use of lights to call men home from the sea (as seen with the lighthouse in the short) is recreated in the full-length feature with the club lights during the reunion scene at the end of the film.

42 Simran, Hans. “Ghost Stories”. Sight and Sound. Dec. 2019. p. 40. 30

The reunion between Ada and Souleiman is a tender moment made possible through Souleiman’s possession of the detective’s body. Souleiman’s soul is only realized in the reflection of the mirror and connecting images with shot counter-shots. Diop cuts between these two points of view, one with Ada and the detective, and the other of Ada and Souleiman in the mirror; the latter dominates much of the screen time in this sequence. Significantly, the mirror through which we see Souleiman (and through which we saw the other boys earlier in the film) is fragmented, structured by diagonal lines running across the glass. Therefore, the view of Ada and Souleiman is disrupted, it is never whole, demonstrating its impossibility of their togetherness. Diop’s cinematography echoes their separation through these fragmented images. During this ghostly love scene, a light melody plays overtop, supported by the ever-present sound of waves from the ocean. This sound is a reminder that the ocean returned Souleiman to Ada, and that eventually the ocean must take him back, a watery passage between two worlds reminiscent of the River Styx. The River Styx comes from Greek mythology and the story of a Titan goddess, Styx. In the myth, the River Styx ferries souls between Earth and the Underworld.43 The river and the ocean in Atlantique both contain souls in their depths and serve as watery passages between two worlds. The waves of the ocean imply Souleiman’s coming and going to and from his oceanic purgatory. When Diop reveals the source of the sound she appears to do so through the mirror’s reflection, the same way she reveals Souleiman. Why does she choose to do this? For me, it is further confirmation of the ocean’s connection to the supernatural. The only uninterrupted shot we see of Ada and Souleiman is accompanied by Ada’s voiceover claiming she knew he would return to her. After the camera pans down their two naked bodies, it jumps to an unframed image of the ocean with the sun rising over top. This time, the camera is not fixed, but moving like with a handheld camera. Ada’s voiceover continues to play, and the ocean returns to the position of the object as Ada talks to it. Souleiman’s voice dissolves into Ada’s and he is speaking to her from the depths of the ocean, taken back to the sea or perhaps now free from its grip. While Souleiman’s possession of the detective serves to reunite with his love and liberates Ada in the end, the possession of the girls has very strong feminist undertones. Diop portrays this possession with a fever that sets over the women before they are possessed, and

43 The Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica. “Styx.” Encyclopædia Britannica, Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., 7 Feb. 2018. 31 they fall ill with sweat. The girls’ eyes become glazed and opaque and sweat covers their bodies. The first time we see them in this possessed state is when they go to their boss’ home to demand the wages that went unpaid and ultimately cost their boyfriends their lives. The gait of the women changes as they walk and when they are seated, they spread their legs wide inhabiting a historically masculine position. The actresses perform the male gender, perform masculinity, in the way they present their bodies to the camera in how they sit and walk most noticeably. The men possessing their bodies is exemplary of the way men control women’s bodies sans supernatural influence, as seen with Ada’s virginity test. This possession is not limited to women, but also representative of Senegal as a nation. Throughout the film there are three different languages spoken: Wolof, French, and Arabic.44 Thus demonstrating how colonization has possessed Senegal similar to how men possess and control women and implying how both Senegal and women desire to be liberated from this possession. In response to this desire for freedom from possession both literally and symbolically, Diop liberated Ada in the final sequence of the film. Souleiman has gone back to the sea, presumably never to return again, the detective has gone home with an understanding that he was the necessary vessel for this reunion, leaving Ada by herself. Diop frames Ada sitting on the floor, her reflection in the mirror immediately behind her, then cuts quickly to place the point of view of the camera in the mirror, looking at Ada. The spectator is put in the position of Ada’s reflection, more precisely the position of her reflected gaze since she is staring straight down the camera’s lens, which diegetically would be at herself. Ada looks at us – which is also herself – with a smile on her face, while her inner monologue anticipates what her future can hold. The placement of the camera and the breaking of the fourth wall are quintessential to Ada’s liberation. By breaking the fourth wall she has liberated herself from the ‘unknown’ gaze of the spectator by addressing her “to-be-looked-at-ness”45, and by placing the spectator in the position of her reflection the spectator is invited to take part in Ada’s journey. The film ends with Ada concluding in a voiceover on a black screen “I am Ada”46. She places herself as both the subject and the object of the sentence, completely recentering herself and becoming master of her own

44 Dry, Jude. “'Atlantics': How Mati Diop Turned Senegalese Folklore Into a Feminist Mood Piece.” IndieWire, IndieWire, 29 Nov. 2019 45 Mulvey, p. 624. 46 Diop, Mati. Atlantique. 2019. 32 fate. While her identity might not be known, her future is her own. This is also symbolic of Senegal reclaiming their independence and their voice; Ada’s liberation and choice to create her own destiny echoes the choice and freedom of her country.

4: COLONIAL CONSEQUENCES

When you have countries that have a lot of minerals and diamonds and oil and are in business with companies from all over the world – but these companies don’t share, really, their profits – this is called post-post-colonial. Claire Denis47

Both of the films by Claire Denis explored in this thesis depict a time thought to be in the past. A time of before and after colonialism. With Mati Diop’s film we see that post colonialism doesn’t have a clearly demarcated ending. The effects of colonialism have become ingrained in the relationships between the countries of this extremely interconnected world and economy. The year 2020 has been nothing if not eye-opening to the racial conflict that dictates a systemic and oppressive way of life throughout the globe. There is also much cinematic representation of this injustice as seen in Just Mercy (2019), Green Book (2018), and When They See Us (2019) just to name a few. The murders of black men and women like George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and Riah Milton are a result of a racism that was never fully eradicated in the United States. The repercussions of 400 years of slavery, Jim Crow laws, the KKK, segregation, civil rights, gentrification, racial profiling, and police brutality are culminating in the form of a revolution in America, a former colony. Racism in America feels nearly inextricable from the society of the country. The results and consequences of colonialism, beginning in the late 15th century, exist on a much larger, and more global scale. The films examined in this thesis not only challenge the way colonialism is seen as a thing of the past, but also invite spectators to question their own understanding of its continued effect in modern life, and its implications on identity, both during and after colonization. The oldest film examined in this thesis, Chocolat, saw the power of the white man (and woman) over the black man. France, the character, showed a possibility for hope in a new generation, one that has witnessed the oppression of black people. The identity of the black man in Chocolat was contingent upon the white man. In fact, Chocolat is a slang term from the 1950’s which meant “to be cheated” and is symbolic of how Protée was cheated by the white colonizers. Protée’s identity as Other is represented through the presence and forced power of the

47 Druckman, Charlotte. “Asked & Answered | Claire Denis.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 17 Nov. 2010.

34 white colonizers. The end of the film sees Protée breaking from the ideological frame of the Other, placed there by white people. Frantz Fanon argues “As long as the black man is among his own, he will have no occasion, except in minor internal conflicts, to experience his being through others.”48 Therefore, following this argument, without colonization, and without the presence of the white colonizers, Protée would not be in the position of the Other. It is the interactions between whites and blacks that promotes a feeling of otherness. White Material flips the script and explores the possibility of hospitable relationships between whites and blacks in (post)colonial Africa, only to reveal that this friendliness is not yet ready to be accepted. The identity of the white man and the identity of the black man as seen thus far are bound to a hierarchical relationship. Maria believes that she can coexist with her African neighbors, but she is unwilling to relinquish the privilege her skin affords her. Were she to return to France, as the soldiers urge her to do in the beginning, perhaps she would no longer be the ambiguous Other. Her otherness is contingent upon those around her. The difference between the exploration of identity in White Material and Atlantique is that Maria cannot accept her identity as Other to her detriment, whereas Ada refuses to accept society’s place for her much to her future advantage. Diop’s film looks to the future and demonstrates the subtle and covert effects of colonialism still plaguing the lives of many Africans. Years after the end of colonialism, and the liberation of Senegal, the characters live in what Claire Denis coins the “post-post-colonial”. Atlantique questions if there will ever be an end to post colonialism, or if it is foundational to the way some populations experience life, such as migration as represented in Diop’s film. While freedom can be acquired, the traces of colonialism may never be eradicated, such as the different languages spoken in the film. Ada claiming her future at the end simultaneously accepts and rejects the constraints and influence of her colonial past. She recognizes the impact it has had on her life, such as the loss of Souleiman, and looks to a better future free from the limits of a society molded by colonialism. The chronological progression of an overt racial hierarchy as seen in these films is reflective of how subliminal and engrained colonialism’s effects have become in society. From the outright act of living in Africa and regulating Africans’ way of life, to reaping the benefits of Africa’s natural splendor without sharing those profits with its people, colonialism has consequences that will continue for years to come.

48 Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. Grove Press, 1952. p. 82.

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